Her Opinionated Mind
by LizBee
Summary: Alternate universe in which Judith Russell dies in San Francisco in 1903. Fifteen years later, her daughter comes to Holmes in the hope that he'll investigate the suicide of her father.


**Title: **Her Opinionated Mind  
**Author: **LizBee  
**Summary:** Alternate universe in which Judith Russell dies in San Francisco in 1903. Fifteen years later, her daughter comes to Holmes in the hope that he'll investigate the suicide of her father.  
**Warnings:** Opens _in media res_. Mild hair obsession.  
**Fandom:** Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes)  
**Spoilers:** _The Beekeeper's Apprentice, Locked Rooms_.  
**Disclaimer: **Russell is the property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle.  
**Notes: **Thanks as always to Branwyn, aka Cesario. I swiped the title from one W. B. Yeats. ("A Prayer For My Daughter", if you really want to know. bats eyelashes) Feedback is very welcome: elizabeth (underscore) barr (at) yahoo (dot) com (dot) au.****

**Her Opinionated Mind**  
by LizBee 

Despite the lateness of the hour, there was still a light on in the Russell house, and Holmes was unsurprised when Miss Russell answered the door herself. She was dressed for bed, with an elaborately embroidered silk dressing gown thrown over some moth-eaten mens' pyjamas and her long hair hanging loose down her back, but there was fresh ink staining her fingers, and her eyes were red.

She took one look at him and said, "You should have let me go with you."

But she offered him her arm, and didn't flinch when he rested some of his weight on her. She was stronger than she looked, for all that she was thin, and for a moment the thought crossed his mind that yes, he should have let her come.

Foolishness, of course. This was no business for young girls, however strong.

She led him through to the library, waving the butler – wearing much newer pyjamas than his employer – off with orders to get hot water and bandages. She helped him into a chair by the fire, and said, "What happened?"

He paused before answering, gathering his thoughts and relishing, for a moment, the warmth of the fire. Rheumatic muscles relaxed, and he said, "Our quarry knew I was coming, or perhaps she merely made a lucky guess. Although I doubt we are so fortunate as to be dealing with that kind of careless mind."

"Was she there in person?" Miss Russell unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it aside to examine his bleeding shoulder, and amended her question. "How many men were there?"

He laughed gently. "Only one. I fear I'm getting too old for this."

She gave him a reproachful look, but did not point out, again, that she had offered to come along.

The butler returned with water, accompanied by a housemaid bearing bandages, and tea. Miss Russell directed them to leave the supplies by her side and leave. The butler was inclined to stay, no doubt to protect his young mistress's reputation, but she drew herself to her considerable full height and said, "Go. I'll ring when you're needed."

When they were alone again she said, "Are there any other injuries?"

"A few cuts. Some bruises. Nothing serious."

"You hold your ribs as if they pain you."

"They're bruised, nothing more."

She looked unconvinced, but bent again to the lacerations on his shoulder. Her hair smelt sweet; she used a particular kind of lavender water, he thought, and he should have been able to identify it, but the name eluded him. He was tired, and he was old. And his arm still seemed to twinge from the last injection, for all that it was over a week ago. He wondered, as she pulled his sleeves up to clean the cuts, if she would say something, but she merely glanced at the old needle-marks and reached for a clean bandage.

When she was finished, she poured him a cup of tea and said, "What did you find?"

"Very little," he admitted. "Our friend had prepared for me. The office was quite bare."

Miss Russell sipped her tea and said, carefully, "There is a package in the pocket of your coat." Her smile was tight. Difficult to remember she was only eighteen. "Or does that pertain to some other Charles Russell?"

"Those papers are – not relevant. Merely echoes of the initial accusations against him."

"May I see, please?"

With difficulty, and reluctance, he drew the packet from his pocket and presented it to her. She read through the papers quickly, her lips thinning as she absorbed it all.

When she had finished, she said, "You think he did it, don't you?"

He was almost asleep; he managed to say, "I'm sorry?" and forced himself to listen as she spoke.

"You believe he's guilty of these ... accusations."

"Miss Russell." With an effort, he drew himself straight. "It would be very strange for a blackmailer to expend so much energy in extorting money from a man who was innocent of all charges. A most impractical waste of resources."

"It's difficult, once allegations are made, to clear one's name. My father's position was very delicate."

"You are very devoted to your father."

"He's all I have." She paused. "All I had." She was still for some minutes, staring into the fire, hands clenched. "My mother died when I was three. An accident, at the beach. I was there – I was watching – the wave seemed to come out of nowhere, and the rocks were sharp ... I'll never forget the sight of her skirt – it was red – disappearing under the water. I had nightmares for years, but my father was always there when I woke up. I suppose you might say I was indulged – spoiled – my other relatives certainly think so – but all we had was each other."

It was on the tip of Holmes's tongue to ask if she was familiar with the work of Freud, but he didn't have the energy to bait her at that moment.

Slowly she said, "You truly believe he was guilty? Of ... of robbing the dead, and--" She broke off. "He was a wealthy man, Mr Holmes, even in 1906. He had no need to steal." She looked down at the pages crumpled in her hands. "What hold did this Greenfield have over him? I don't understand."

She stood up and stalked over to the fire. For a moment, Holmes thought she was going to throw the papers into the flames, but instead, she dropped them on the floor and leaned against the mantelpiece.

"I could forgive him anything," she said, not meeting Holmes's eyes, "if only he'd taken the trouble to explain. I don't think he trusted that--"

Her voice cracked, and she turned and half-ran out, silk robe and hair flying behind hair. Holmes watched her leave, but didn't follow. He permitted himself a twinge of irritation, not that Russell had killed himself, but that he had left his strange, clever daughter with no explanation but a vague note that was nothing but a comforting fiction. The girl deserved better.

She was gone only a few minutes, and when she returned, her eyes were almost clear behind her spectacles. She seated herself in her chair – her father's chair, he suspected – with her dressing gown draped around her like a queen's robe, and said, "If we are to have any success with this case, we need to find Robert Greenfield."

He concealed his sudden, inappropriate amusement at her business-like tone, and said, "I take it you have some ideas as to how we should achieve this?"

"I used to be friends with his daughter. She told me once that he lived in France, and that his sister owned a cabaret in Paris."

He did not point out that there were many cabarets in Paris, and more, that the country had only recently been ravaged by war, and Greenfield himself might well be dead. He confined himself to a mild, "Finding him could take a great deal of time."

"I know. That's why I'll be going with you." Her jaw was set. "My executors haven't appointed a guardian for me yet, and I don't intend to hang about while they decide which of my relatives is the least offensive. I'm going to France."

"It will look rather strange, the two of us traveling together."

She gave him a sudden smile, unexpected and lovely. "I promise I won't seduce you, Mr Holmes." She stood up, and in the firelight, with her hair falling about her, she looked like a gaunt Pre-Raphaelite artist's model.

He was, he found, quite speechless. Which was surely her intent, because she laughed and said, "I've had Evans make up a room for you. I'm not letting you go out again in your current state."

She offered him her arm, and led him out into the main hall, where the butler waited to snatch him away from Miss Russell's innocent presence, and lead him to a guest room. He looked back, as he made his way up the stairs, but Miss Russell didn't follow; she stood in the hall, arms wrapped around herself, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. She would get no sleep tonight, he thought. France, and solid action, might be the best thing for her. She had not been back to University since her father died; he doubted she'd return while the circumstances remained uncertain. Hanging about here, with nothing to do but fend off grasping or condescending relatives, she would no doubt find herself prey to the kind of frustration most easily resolved with a needle.

He paused at the top of the stairs, and called, "Miss Russell?"

"Yes?" She moved forward, and he could see the tear snaking down her cheek.

"Be sure to pack sensible clothes. Your father's, I think, not your own."

She smiled. "Of course."

"Good."

The butler gave him a look of profound disapproval, but said nothing, and as he finally succumbed to sleep, the memory of Miss Russell's quick, amused smile was the last thing in his mind.

end


End file.
